Only Five
by KneazleGriff
Summary: One park bench. Two lost souls. Five chances for love. HPSS


******A/N: **Happy Valentine's Day everyone, though I admit there isn't much left of the day. I had originally hoped to post this story early this morning, but alas, real life got in the way as it often does. I hope you enjoy it regardless of its belated arrival.******  
**

This is a post-Hogwarts story, beginning a few months after the Final Battle. It assumes canon, but ignores the epilogue.

******Summary: **One park bench. Two lost souls. Five chances for love. HPSS

******Rating: **T (for mild slash and language)

******Disclaimer: **All characters belong to J.K. Rowling.

******Appreciation: **Special thanks to **YenGirl** for looking over this story for me. Thanks for your help, Yen!

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**Only Five**

**One - September 28th, 9:18am**

Harry inhaled a cleansing breath of cool autumn air and held it, letting it out a little at a time. He listened to the soft rustle of the brittle leaves as they twisted and turned in the wind and watched as they performed their playful dance. They chased one another across the playground's browning lawn as if oblivious to their state of quietus, swirling and spiraling around in small eddies before being swept up to the heavens by the wind's forceful sway.

_Hmm... I guess even the leaves remain blissfully unaware of their own death..._

Trying to push aside that metaphoric and somewhat grim reflection, Harry pulled the collar of his coat further up his neck to stave off the wind's sharp sting. The chilly air was more biting than was typical for this early in the season, though he supposed the unseasonable cold was just Mother Nature's way of mourning her losses after so much death.

Shuddering, Harry clamped his eyes shut and wrapped his arms around his middle – more for comfort than for warmth. He hated this. Hated how easily his thoughts slipped into such dark, disturbing notions. Though in truth, his propensity for morbidity was to be expected. It was just a product of what had become of his life, a consequence of this latest and worst burden placed upon him by fate's cruel plan.

It seemed the Boy-Who-Lived would always be entangled within the complex realms of life and death, trapped inside that sliver of sentience existing between the two.

Harry remembered with precise clarity when it all began...

**––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––**

It was Sunday, May 3rd, the day following the Final Battle.

After stumbling out of his four-poster late that afternoon and clambering into the Gryffindor washroom, Harry turned toward the shower stall to take a much anticipated hot shower, only to jump back in surprise.

Someone was already there.

A dazed-looking boy stood motionless in the middle of the stall, shivering and staring up at him with wide, fearful eyes. He was much younger than Harry, thirteen at the most. Harry could not recall the boy's name, but his face did look familiar. No doubt Harry had seen him before in the common room, for he _was_ a Gryffindor, the boy's rumpled scarlet and gold tie prominent against the bright white of his collared shirt.

Harry was just about to inquire about the boy's state of well-being, when something else caught his eye... something that sent his stomach plummeting and his heart racing.

There was a large, dark stain at the very bottom of that crisp white shirt, beginning just above the boy's waistline and stretching all the way around to his back.

"Oh my God! You're bleeding!"

The instant Harry realized the seriousness of the situation, he snapped into panic mode once again, feeling very much like he had never left it. With the urgency and swiftness born from seventeen years' worth of perilous circumstances, Harry snatched up the boy's ice-cold hand and raced him through the rubble-filled corridors toward the Hospital Wing. He talked to the boy the whole way, asking him a slew of frantic questions as they hastened through what seemed like an endless array of halls and stairwells…

_What's your name? How were you injured? Who attacked you? Why didn't you get help earlier?_

The only response he got from the traumatized boy was a solitary question voiced in a faint, quavering tone.

Three words.

Three _very disturbing_ words.

"Am I dead?"

Harry did not answer him. Instead, he tightened his grip on the smaller hand and pulled with more urgency as he dashed down the fifth floor corridor, dodging huge chunks of stone that had been blasted away from the walls only hours before. When they reached the double doors of the school infirmary at last, Harry barreled through them and called for Madam Pomfrey at the top of his lungs, the frightened boy still clutching Harry's hand like a lifeline as he cowered beside him.

Madam Pomfrey appeared a mere second after that, looking disheveled and exhausted as she sprinted out of her office. As soon as she reached them, she placed her hands on Harry's upper arms and eyed him with apprehension, her worried gaze traveling the length of his body several times as if searching for an injury.

She never once acknowledged the second boy in the room, a boy whose shirt was stained with blood. Even in the panic of the moment, the blatant oversight by the normally thorough mediwitch caused Harry a good bit of unease.

Shaking off her tight grip, Harry attempted to direct her attention to the injured boy. Though still panting and out of breath from his sprint through the castle, he did his best to convey the details to her, launching into the entire story of how he'd found him in the Gryffindor washroom, covered in blood and in obvious shock.

He was not prepared for the urgent question that escaped her pale lips in response.

"Where is the boy now?"

_Where is the boy now?! What the…?_

At first, Harry could do little more than gape at the mediwitch, stunned by her anomalous question. Then, after motioning toward the boy over and over again and getting nothing in response from her but an expression of increasing bafflement, his panic skyrocketed.

_She can't see him? But... but he's literally inches from her! How in Merlin's name–?!_

His frenzied deliberation was cut short a moment later when the hand gripping his tugged with insistence, its owner peering up at him with pleading, sorrowful eyes. Trying hard to ignore the sinking feeling of foreboding consuming him, Harry turned his attention back to the boy just in time to hear him repeat his cryptic question from before.

"Am I dead?"

And then it hit him – like a bludger to the stomach, knocking all the air from his lungs kind of 'hit him'. Somehow, though it seemed impossible and scary as hell, this boy _was_ dead.

And only Harry could see him.

He remembered the icy wave of sickening dread that washed over him as he studied the boy, taking in those seemingly insignificant details he had overlooked before...

The bleak expression on the too pale face... the skin that was frigid enough to pull the warmth right out of the air. And the eyes... Oh God, those eyes... so sad and frightened... so completely and profoundly lost and desperate... staring blankly ahead as if searching for something just out of reach.

Harry's quivering fingers slackened just as the small hand made to pull away. Those stark eyes remained locked with his own though, piercing him with a haunting, vacant look that caused his racing heart to ache with a deep, raw despair. After a long tense minute, the boy spoke once more, his voice a mere whisper of fearful uncertainty.

"I have to go now, don't I?"

"Y-y-yes… I… yes," Harry whispered in response, voice trembling and heart breaking. "I think you should… go on."

"Thank you," the boy murmured as he turned and walked with silent steps toward the double doors.

He vanished before ever reaching them.

**––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––**

That boy was just the first of many lost souls to seek him out.

They approached Harry as if drawn to him by some unseen force, seeking his encouragement to move on, needing his affirmation of their own demise in order to gain some kind of acceptance of it. It was as if Harry's words of comfort and consent alone were the impetus that engendered their passing into the next phase of being, the trigger that allowed them to transcend into the realm of spirit.

Those first few weeks were the worst. Harry had stayed at Hogwarts after the Final Battle to help repair the castle's damaged walls and assist in the restoring of its wards, but everywhere he looked, he saw them. Their eyes were wide and staring, filled with shock and confusion as they walked among the living, most of them oblivious to their own passing.

His plight was made worse by the fact that it was sometimes difficult to distinguish the dead from the living. Truth be told, beyond the wan complexion and unnaturally cold skin, there wasn't a telltale indication of a recently departed soul. It didn't help that even the survivors from the war walked around with pale skin and lost, vacant expressions on their faces, their eyes permeating as much pain and regret as those of the dead.

Of course, some were quite simple to spot, having died of a lethal wound instead of a spell like _Avada Kedavra_ which left no physical mark. These souls, like the young boy in the Gryffindor washroom, could be identified easily. But even that wasn't full-proof as some of the more clever ones had taken to masking said injury – a hat concealing a crushed skull or a long coat hiding a fatal stab wound. It seemed even in death, most souls would rather cover up such an overt flaw, rather than flaunt it. Or perhaps their need to hide their injury was part of their denial; that which remains unseen can more readily be ignored.

The fact that these lost souls would so aggressively seek him out wasn't always a giveaway either. He was Harry Potter, for God's sake – the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, the Vanquisher of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (as they were now calling him). He was well accustomed to the masses endeavoring to be near him.

No. In the end, it was that look in their eyes that served as conclusive proof of their fatal misfortune, that hopeless, absent gaze that spoke of utter devastation. It tore at Harry's heart every time he encountered it, and quickly caused him to fall into a deep, crippling depression, eating little and sleeping even less. So oppressive was his despondency that even though he'd planned on staying at Hogwarts for at least two weeks, he left after only three days.

The Weasleys took him in after that. Harry was hopeful that the unannounced visitations would cease now that he was away from the site of so much loss of life, but he was wrong. They still came. They came to him during all hours, even going so far as to wake him in the middle of the night or perch themselves on the edge of his bed and wait until he woke up himself, jerking upright and staring around, peering in the dark through glasses he hadn't wanted to remove.

That's when the panic attacks started.

Mr. Weasley tried to help by taking him to a mind-healer, which is really the same as a Muggle psychologist. It was the same mind-healer George was meeting with twice a week for grief counseling. The sessions seemed to be benefiting George, as he was no longer spending the majority of his time holed up in his room, but Harry couldn't say the same about his own sessions. In the three weeks he had been meeting with the man, he received little more than basic advice on how to manage his panic through breathing techniques and meditation. Harry supposed that was all that could be expected considering his particular situation. After all, no mind-healer had the ability to stop the _source_ of his anxiety.

Harry was beginning to lose hope that anyone could.

His breaking point came on his eighteenth birthday. The Weasleys, while in the midst of dealing with their own loss, attempted to cheer him up by throwing him a surprise birthday party. Of course in all their planning, it was doubtful they could have anticipated Fred showing up.

Fred Weasley's warm brown eyes, once radiant with devilish guile and exuberance, were now bereft of all their humor and joy. Seeing the sheer depth of sorrow within them felt like a knife to Harry's already wounded heart. It seemed Fred was one of the rare souls who was fully aware of his passing, but was reluctant to leave, so anguished over the now severed bond with his twin brother. It took Harry an entire hour to convince him to let go of his former life and move on. That encounter, filled with anguished tears and heartbreaking confessions of deep regret, came closer than any other to pushing Harry over that precarious edge.

He came closer still later that same evening when George insisted that he disclose the details of his meeting with the late twin. Fred's visit had come as a shock to him, as well as to the rest of the Weasleys, as they had all assumed the lively red-head would have moved on to the afterlife immediately following his death. When Harry explained that Fred was only holding on to his sentient form because of his own grief over losing his twin bond, George did not take it well. In fact, he completely broke down. He was so devastated, so utterly shaken, that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley rushed him to St. Mungo's where he was diagnosed with grief-induced hysteria. They ended up admitting him so that he could undergo additional intensive grief counseling.

As horrible as that incident was, it was Ginny's reaction that served as the final straw. Harry had hoped that the two of them would be able to reconcile after the war, start anew with their severed relationship. That, however, was not meant to be. It wasn't some overt display that clued Harry in to the fact that she was no longer interested, or rather that she was _turned off_ by Harry's new abnormality. No, it was actually quite subtle – subtle, but devastating. Later that same night, after all the other Weasleys had comforted Harry with loving words of unwavering support and hugs of understanding, each one of them insisting that George's relapse was in no way his fault, Ginny stayed silent and avoided him. When Harry finally approached her with arms outstretched, needing her touch, her warmth, her compassion... she flinched and turned away from him.

_That_ was his limit. _That_ was the final nudge that sent him tumbling off that fringe of accepted normalcy.

He'd had _enough_.

Enough of the heartbroken, mournful looks and whispered laments from the living and the dead alike.

Enough of the burden of being the one person with the capability to save everyone from their own pain and desolation and loss.

Enough of all that was Harry Potter.

Dumbledore had offered up his theory weeks earlier. Harry had gone to speak to the former Headmaster's portrait the very same day he had found that boy in Gryffindor Tower, having been accosted by several more souls later that day. He had hoped the man could explain what the hell was happening, but more importantly, devise some kind of fix to make it stop.

With a heavy sigh that did not bode well for Harry's barely controlled panic at the time, the aged wizard informed him of his best guess on the recent development. He believed Harry's newfound talent for evoking the souls of the recently fallen was most likely an unfortunate side effect of becoming the 'Master of Death,' a consequence of uniting the Hallows and using the Resurrection Stone to call forth his own departed loved ones.

Unfortunately, that was the extent of the former Headmaster's elucidation. He did _not_ offer a solution. And weeks later, after being swarmed day in and day out with a near constant stream of desperate, grief-stricken souls looking to him for guidance and redemption, it began to dawn on Harry that there just wasn't one.

So he left.

Packing up what remained of his meager belongings, Harry said his goodbyes to his friends, withdrew a large sum of money from his Gringott's vault and took off. He spent the next week or so hopping from town to town, sleeping in remote hotels and abandoned homes, hoping to find someplace devoid of the aggressive, overbearing spirits haunting him. His persistence finally paid off when his varied travels revealed an unforeseen loophole, one that offered the first real hope to his otherwise hopeless situation. As it turned out, only the departed souls of _witches and wizards_ were able to connect with him. Those of Muggles were not. Moreover, magical souls seemed to have a very hard time accessing him in Muggle-dominated areas.

This made his decision easy. Without a second thought, he headed for the mundane dominion of British suburbia to live amongst Muggles. Non-magic though they were, they were at least _alive_.

By mid-August, Harry had settled down in one such banal, uninspiring Muggle community, though it wasn't just _any_ Muggle community. Harry chose to move into his mother's childhood neighborhood, into the very home she and his Aunt Petunia grew up in. Apparently, his maternal grandparents had willed the property to Lily and it had remained unoccupied since their deaths shortly before Harry was born. Now the house legally belonged to him, and Harry didn't hesitate to take the opportunity presented to him. He moved in as soon as the deed was transferred to his name. Harry had to admit, the nostalgia of retracing his mother's childhood footsteps was a comfort to him after such a traumatic few months.

He still kept in touch with Ron and Hermione – a letter now and again and in Hermione's case, a few phone calls – but he refused to return to the Wizarding World, even for a visit. He never wanted to be surrounded by that much despair and heartache again.

In truth, his new life was a lonely existence. He spent his days devoid of all human contact, except on Sundays when he worked at the corner café as a part-time barista – a job he took just to prove to himself that he wasn't a _complete_ recluse. However, most of his time was spent alone, either reading Muggle fiction in his new home or observing the neighborhood children playing in the local park.

This was where he found himself now. It was where he found himself _most_ mornings as it had very quickly become his morning ritual. He found it strangely calming – watching the world transpire all around him and yet feeling no attachment or responsibility to it. The park bench was worn and splintered and the autumn wind unseasonably harsh, but with his winter coat wrapped around him and his hot cup of caffé americano warming his chilled hand, he found himself caring very little about minor discomforts.

At least the world around him was alive... with the possible exception of the dancing leaves.

All poetic notions regarding wind-swept foliage was put on hold a moment later when a man approached Harry's bench and made to sit down. Harry kept his eyes averted, unwilling to make eye contact as he scooted further down the bench to give the man room. He was still not keen on polite conversation with strangers, not when there was a chance – however unlikely – that the stranger might turn out to be a member of the nonliving.

Without a sound, the man took the offered seat. The silence that followed was ubiquitous and strained, an unnerving, tense kind of quiet. Harry couldn't help but be unsettled by it. Even the most antisocial Muggles were in the habit of acknowledging a perfect stranger whom they shared such close personal space with. The absence of such an acknowledgment was unusual, oppressively uncomfortable and against Harry's better judgment, he lifted his gaze to look upon the man's face just as the man spoke, breaking the awkward silence.

"Back again, Mr. Potter?"

Harry's breath caught in throat and his heart began to pound at a frantic pace, thundering like a bass drum and resonating in his ears. Stunned into choked silence, he stared at the pale, thin face of the man who had died in his arms months ago.

"Snape!? Christ, what the hell?! What... what are you doing here? Oh... Shit! Damnit!" Harry cursed, furious with himself for his glaring oversight.

How could he be so stupid as to overlook the fact that,_ of course_ Snape's soul would have no trouble accessing the neighborhood park where he had spent so much time as a child?

"Well, I didn't expect your reaction to be welcoming, exactly, but I had thought you might refrain from swearing obscenities at me."

"Wh-what? I... oh... sorry. OK... uh... OK..." Harry stammered, his words falling over themselves as he struggled to calm his racing heart and slow down his erratic breathing. He hadn't been this shaken at seeing the dead since his encounter with Fred.

With his head lowered and his eyes clamped shut, Harry took a few deep breaths in an attempt to engender some type of forced calm, then looked back up to inspect those dark, cavernous eyes.

Yes. They were devoid of any kind of happiness, just like the eyes of all the other lost souls who had sought him out. Of course, Harry reminded himself, Snape's eyes were never alight with joyful sentiment when he was alive either.

That last thought prompted a small smile of remembrance to curve Harry's lips and suddenly, his anxiety began to ebb, the tightness in his chest loosening and his breathing evening out. A few more deep breaths and determination stole through him, eclipsing what remained of his initial panic.

Harry knew what he must do.

Once again, he was being called upon to act as guide and liberator for a departed soul in need. As much as he loathed this process and as much as it tore at his heart, he would go though it for Snape. He would gladly sacrifice his own precarious sanity for the man who had sacrificed so much to keep him safe, for the man who despite his wretched treatment of Harry over the years, had earned Harry's respect, as well as a very special place in his heart.

Yes... he _would_ do this.

Harry lifted his gaze, looking deeply into those stone-cold black orbs, and repeated the words he had uttered countless times over the last four months.

"Snape, it's alright... you're going to be fine. Look, I know you're frightened, but you have to let yourself go. You just need to follow that light inside you, that voice deep within you that beckons you. I know you've heard it. Follow it. Let it lead you–"

"What gibberish are you spouting, Potter? For God's sake, if I'd wanted some new age shite spewed at me, I would have owled Trelawney and invited her to tea!"

Harry shut his mouth, embarrassed when he realized he was gaping at his former professor. He wasn't accustomed to the souls of the newly dead being quite so obstinate, or hostile.

Well, there had been that tetchy sixth-year Ravenclaw girl. Not only had she stubbornly refused to believe that she was dead, but she also insisted that Harry was hitting on her, telling him that if he didn't get out of her face, she was going to hex him into next week. Harry had let the girl go without another word, but she returned four days later singing a completely different tune. Apparently, four days was more than enough time for her to realize the truth of her passing.

Harry should have known Snape would be equally difficult. God knows the man was a pain in the ass in living form, too.

"Professor–"

"Potter, keep your trap shut for a minute and let me talk," Snape interrupted, his tone betraying his annoyance. "I've watched you come here every morning for the last month, sitting on this bench and sulking like some misunderstood teenage miscreant and quite frankly, I've had just about enough of it. I didn't put my life on the line for you for the last seven years so that you could hide yourself in some out-of-the-way Muggle nowhere and brood. Now I have no idea what you're playing at, but you'd best get off you sorry ass and return to the world you belong. Christ, your mother would kill me if she knew you were wasting your life like this!"

Harry's eyes grew wider and wider with each passing word. He had honestly thought he'd heard the last of Snape's angry diatribes, what with the man being dead and all. However, it seemed that not even death could stop the acerbic man from voicing his harsh opinion.

Undeterred, Harry took another deep breath, brushed off the scolding comments, and tried a different approach.

"Look, Snape... I realize that this might come as a shock to you but... well... um..."

"Out with it, Potter!"

"Sorry... um... OK. Do you remember what happened in the Shrieking Shack? With Voldemort? Your conversation with him about the Elder wand?"

Snape looked at him like he had two heads.

"Yes, Potter, of course I remember–"

"OK, so do you remember what happened next? With Nagini?" Harry asked, his gaze inadvertently darting over to the thick wool scarf wrapped around Snape's neck. Harry was quite certain its sole purpose for being there was to hide the gruesome remains of the giant snake's attack.

If Snape noticed the fleeting glance, he made no mention of it. He did, however, make his growing irritation at Harry's questions known by way of the seething glare he was directing at him.

"I'll take that as a 'yes', then," Harry continued, swallowing past the tightness in his throat. "OK. So, if you recall all that, then you must also remember giving me your memories, right?"

Snape stood abruptly at the mention of his proffered memories, his expression livid now. He fastened the top button of his coat with forceful, angry movements then tightened the scarf around his neck. After sweeping his long, pale fingers through his ebony hair, Snape fixed Harry with an infuriated look, dark eyes blazing with fiery vehemence.

When he spoke again, it was through gritted teeth, his tone deadly soft.

"Don't think you know everything about me from those memories, Potter! They served as a means to an end, nothing more! Had I known there was a chance you'd survive that encounter with the Dark Lord, I never would have included–"

Snape cut himself off without warning, clamping his mouth shut with more force than was necessary. He released a harsh, strained breath and lowered his head, raking his fingers through his hair several more times. When those black eyes snapped up to lock with Harry's once more, there was a very different kind of intensity emanating from their depths. It was a fierce, raw, burning intensity, one that caused Harry's pulse to speed up and a strange queasiness to coil and churn in the pit of his stomach.

The disconcerting sensations were short lived though. A second later, Snape averted his heated gaze and spun away from him, stomping off like a petulant child as he trudged his way across the playground with long, forceful steps. The only thing missing from the familiar dramatic display was the customary billowing of the man's black teaching robes.

"Damn," Harry muttered as he pulled the collar of his coat further up his exposed neck, the bitter wind picking up. "Death has done nothing to deter that temper of his."

**Two - October 31st, 11:13am**

Harry's peppermint mocha purchased hours ago should have turned to ice by now. Had it been left to the will of the weather, it would have. The temperature this morning was near freezing and the wind was once again relentless in its gale-like tantrum. Fortunately, a non-verbal warming charm was all it took to make the beverage comforting again and in truth, it was the only thing keeping him glued to the frigid park bench. That, and the fact that he really didn't want to go home.

Not to _that_ house... _her_ house.

Not today... the anniversary of her death.

Just in case.

Logically, Harry was almost positive there was no way Lily Potter would come to him. She had died years ago. She certainly didn't need guidance to find her way toward the afterlife. But it was Halloween, the day when that dividing line between the living and the dead was at its thinnest, and it was the first one since developing his new... _calling_... as Hermione liked to refer to it. So, despite the improbability of it, Harry wasn't willing to take any chances. He was planning on staying as far away from that house as he could for the rest of the day, even if it meant freezing his ass off on this bench.

Although, if Harry were being honest with himself, his mother's soul was not the only one occupying his thoughts today. Ever since that surreal meeting with Snape over a month ago, Harry found himself thinking about his former professor more and more.

It was becoming a bit of a problem as Harry's near compulsive rumination about the man was not simply limited to the daytime hours. Thoughts of Snape had begun to infiltrate his subconscious mind as well, disrupting the first significant stretch of undisturbed sleep he had experienced since he was a young boy.

Since the very inception of his macabre talent, Harry had been tormented by nightmares featuring vacant eyes and frigid, pale hands reaching out for him in desperation. Those nightmares had been beyond terrifying, almost as bad as the ones of Voldemort he had suffered through as a student. After he moved into his mother's home, however, those debilitating nightmares vanished, his sleep becoming much more sound and peaceful.

That changed right after his encounter with Snape last month. Thankfully, Harry did not have to endure those same horrifying nightmares featuring droves of departed souls. No, it was only _one particular soul_ that featured in his dreams now.

Snape.

_Just_ Snape.

Surly, menacing, grumpy and... _oddly fascinating_... Snape.

They weren't exactly nightmares either. They were just... flashes. Quick glimmers of jet-black eyes imparting fierce, penetrating stares and pale features twisted into expressions of anger and frustration and bitter unrest.

Whether in sleep or in wakefulness, Harry couldn't seem to get the man, or their bizarre conversation out of his mind. Snape's ambiguous words seemed to be haunting him and the intense look in those ebony eyes was practically burned into his brain. Even now, a month later, Harry still experienced an unfamiliar twisting in his gut and a cool, tingling shiver down his spine every time he recalled the piercing look in those dark, cavernous eyes and the way they seemed to gaze at something deep inside of him – something locked away and hidden.

Harry shook his head to clear his thoughts. He had to stop this. There was really nothing to be gained by reflecting on the motivations of a man who was dead, a man whose soul had passed on and would never again return to the realm of the living.

"Thought you might be out here longer today," came a dark, silky voice behind him.

Harry whirled around and came face to face with none other than Snape, his usual heavy black overcoat wrapped around his thin frame and that same grey winter scarf Harry had seen him wearing a month ago shrouding all but his dark eyes from view.

"Snape! You're... you're still here? I thought... my God! I thought for sure you'd be gone by now!" Harry spluttered, stunned that the man was still holding on to his living memory, the mere echo of his former life. From what he had experienced while still in the Wizarding World, most departed souls took only a few days to accept their passing and move on. Some of the more stubborn ones took a month or so, but Snape had now been dead for almost six months.

"If you're done stammering about like an overexcited toddler, would you kindly budge over so that I may have some room on the bench?"

"Oh... yeah. Sorry."

Snape took his place beside Harry, rubbing his hands together for warmth before folding them and placing them in his lap.

They sat there for at least ten minutes amid a heavy, tense silence. All the while, Harry's mind raced as he tried to figure out what he could possibly say to the man to help him find his way.

His feverish consternation was brought to an end when Snape finally spoke, his rich, baritone timbre slicing through the mounting strain of disquiet.

"Potter, I... I owe you an apology."

Snape paused here and turned his head, pinning Harry with that same blazing, enigmatic look he had directed at him the last time they sat on this bench – the very same one that had featured in Harry's dreams almost every night this past month. Seeing it once again caused him to shudder as a slow frisson of heat traveled up his spine and spread throughout his whole body. He swallowed hard and looked away, suddenly uncomfortable.

"Professor... I..."

"I am not your professor anymore, Potter. Please do not address me as such."

"OK, then, Snape..."

"Severus."

"Severus?"

"Yes. Severus. You may call me by my given name, if you wish. I believe you've earned it."

"Oh. Alright. Then you should call me Harry. I mean, I can't very well call you Severus if you're still going to call me Potter."

Severus dropped his gaze and stared at his own fingers. They were splayed out on his knees now, gripping them with obvious force. His lips were pursed into a hard, rigid line and his brow furrowed as if his mind were engrossed in some internal debate. After a moment, he lifted his head and turned to face Harry once more, his expression milder now, the barest trace of a smile curving the corners of his thin mouth.

"Very well… Harry," Severus replied, his tone a bit softer and more hesitant as he voiced the foreign word. "Do you accept my apology?"

"Um... I don't mean to be rude, but what exactly are you apologizing for? Let's face it, there's a whole shitload of stuff you could be–"

"I am apologizing for my harsh words during our last meeting and for my precipitous departure," he interjected, his scrunched up features and rising volume conveying his irritation at Harry's words. "If you are expecting me to apologize for the way I treated you during your time as my student, I'm afraid you will be sorely disappointed. I did what I had to do in order to retain my cover – nothing more, nothing less! It was essential that you think of me as your enemy. Though I had hoped that by now, you would have realized that everything I did was for _you!"_

Harry swallowed past a sudden tightness in his throat, Severus' cryptic statement about the true meaning behind his actions catching him off guard… and _confusing_ him.

"Sna– Severus, I mean. I… I don't understand. I thought you were keeping me safe… for… for her."

"That was my initial motivation, yes," Severus responded, turning away from Harry, his voice faint and wavering.

"Initial?"

Severus did not respond. Instead, he lifted his hands, kneaded them together in agitation and then tucked them into the pockets of his coat, his eyes still cast down.

After another minute of uncomfortable silence, Harry spoke again, the man's perplexing speech still weighing heavily on his mind.

"So… so are you saying that you... _didn't_ hate me?"

A resonating chuckle escaped the man's smirking lips as he turned back to face Harry.

"Oh, I hated you, alright. _More_ than hated you. I loathed your very existence for five whole years."

"Well, then why the hell did you just say–?"

"Five years, Harry. _Only_ five."

Harry's mind felt sluggish as he tried to process yet another one of the man's obscure utterances. What exactly did that mean... _only_ five years? Was he trying to say that at some point during Harry's fifth year, Severus' opinion of him changed? But what could have happened to make him see Harry in a different light? What could have prompted such an abrupt change of heart?

Harry looked back over to Severus, locking gazes with those deep, obsidian orbs and voiced his tentative guess in a tremulous tone.

"Occlumency?"

"Occlumency," Severus echoed in affirmation.

"Oh."

Silence ensued once again, the seconds feeling more like hours as they ticked by at a slow, torturous pace. At long last, Severus spoke again, this time changing the subject.

"I assume you're avoiding your home, considering what day it is."

Harry swallowed hard, feeling a strange mix of gratitude for Severus' astuteness and shame for his exposed vulnerability.

"Yeah. I don't fancy running in to her, as unlikely as that might be. I mean, I've cherished the times I've seen her and spoken with her, but… but it's just not right. I don't want to be the savior of the living _and_ the dead. It's just… too much. And seeing her again… I… I just wouldn't be able to handle it. Not today. Not again."

He looked over to see Severus staring at him with narrowed eyes, a look of utter confusion on his pale face.

Sighing, Harry realized this conversation was probably too much to handle for a man whose soul was in avoidance, a soul that was desperate to forestall its own mortality and deny the life beyond that awaited it.

"Sorry, Severus. Forget everything I just said. I… tend to ramble incoherencies when I'm nervous."

Severus seemed to be pacified by Harry's meager explanation. He nodded, burying his hands further into his pockets and wrapping his coat more firmly around his middle.

The two stayed like that until well after lunch, silently watching a group of neighborhood boys playing 'capture the flag' in the distance.

Harry sipped his mocha, not even bothering to cast another warming charm on it. Somehow, despite the near freezing temperatures and the cooling drink, warmth didn't seem to be an issue anymore.

**Three - November 6th, 8:23am**

Harry gazed across the playground at the young teenage couple sitting on the swings in the distance. He watched as the boy repeatedly spun in his seat until the chains of his swing wound around each other into a tight coil. The boy released them a moment later, prompting him to whirl around in the other direction at breakneck speed which elicited a tittering of delighted laughter from his girlfriend.

It was as good a way as any to spend the morning, Harry told himself. Watching young love was interesting enough, though it did nothing to take his mind off his troubles.

Quite the opposite, actually.

It had only been a week since his last meeting with Severus, yet he found himself eager for the next one. He still could not get the man out of his mind – or out of his dreams – but in truth, Harry was starting to realize that he didn't want to. He _enjoyed_ thinking about Severus. Even though the notion of daydreaming about a dead man bordered on moral depravity, he couldn't seem to stop himself. He reveled in the images of those dark, intense eyes and the rich sound of that deep, silky voice. Just reminiscing about Severus and their brief time together seemed to warm his heart and lift his spirits. In a time in his life when almost nothing or no one could evoke any kind of fervency from the numbness that consumed him, it was interesting that the one soul who could was not even alive.

And therein lay the problem.

Harry might not be able to understand why his heart seemed to beat a little faster when Severus was near him, or why he thought about the man as often as he did, or how it could possibly be that he should feel more alive sitting on a bench with a dead man than almost any other time in his life, but he did know one thing...

This was destined to end badly. Severus would transcend to the next phase of being soon, if he hadn't already.

And Harry would be alone once again.

"Why aren't you back at Hogwarts? Surely Minerva would let you complete your final year of education."

"Wh–?! Damnit, Severus. Why must you sneak up behind me like that!" Harry exclaimed as his green tea latte slipped from his grip and he scrambled to right it. Fortunately, he had remembered to grab one of those plastic dome lids with just a small slit in the top, otherwise his legs would have been doused in the scalding liquid.

Severus sat down beside him, tightened his grey scarf around his neck, then turned to eye Harry's plastic take-out cup with a sneer of disdain.

"What the hell is that wretched concoction? It looks revolting," he jeered.

"It's a green tea latte, not a _wretched concoction_. I got it from that café on the corner of Tudor and Becket Road. They offer me a discount since I work there on the weekends. And I only bought this instead of my usual coffee because I'm trying to get over a head cold. I can't stand drinking coffee when I'm stuffed up. It always tastes wrong," Harry explained, then redirected the conversation, addressing the man's first question. "And yes. Professor McGonagall did invite me back to Hogwarts to complete my studies, but… but I just needed some time away from... from everything."

"Hmmm. Well, I suppose I can understand that," Severus commented, his eyes still fixed on Harry's cup. "Though I find it hard to believe you reap any sort of personal satisfaction in the creation of overly-commercialized frothy beverages for the mindless droves of Muggles who patronize that place."

"It helps pass the time," Harry replied, shrugging his shoulders.

"And so does staring blankly across this playground every morning," Severus added, looking up from the tea at last and meeting Harry's gaze.

"Yes, well. I find it calming," Harry said. "It keeps my mind from wandering back to… to things I wish not to remember."

As if on cue, his mind snapped back to the horrors of war – the blood, the pain, the grief-stricken, anguished screams from loved ones of the dead – and afterwards, to the countless vacant expressions on the pale faces of the war's ultimate victims, looking to him for guidance and comfort amid a sea of painful regret.

Maybe it was the implied direction of their conversation that triggered the onslaught of memories, or perhaps it was just a consequence of the lingering effects from his cold. Regardless of the cause, those surfaced memories attacked with brutal ferocity. They raced across the forefront of his mind in a rash of disturbing flashes, causing his heartbeat to speed up and his breathing to quicken and pulse. The soft hiss of hot liquid splattering onto cold pavement echoed in his ears when his trembling fingers lost their grip on his cup. Harry bent down to retrieve it, but stopped when a series of sharp pains began to pierce his lungs. The stabbing pain intensified with each labored breath he took, the tightness in his chest almost unbearable. Eyes clamped shut and teeth grinding together, Harry leaned forward and folded his arms around his middle, rocking back and forth over and over again as he struggled to retain his control.

Just when Harry felt he could no longer endure the relentless, suffocating panic, a wonderful feeling of warmth surrounded him. It embraced him, drawing him further into its radiant benevolence and away from the cold terror attacking him. At once, the razor-sharp edge to his anxiety and pain seemed to melt away, vanishing amid a flood of affection and comfort. Harry released a slow, shuddering breath as he let go completely, his whole body relaxing within the tight, protective cocoon.

He startled when freezing cold fingers came to rest on his cheek, then carded through his hair and settled on the nape of his neck. Those long fingers then curved around his neck and applied gentle pressure, pulling Harry further into the loving embrace. Soon, there came the sensation of cool lips skimming across his forehead. Those soft lips stopped their caress when they reached the thin, jagged line of his lightning bolt scar, placing a soft, hesitant kiss there.

It was the kiss that brought Harry back to reality – his mind snapping back to consciousness and registering what was happening.

Severus was holding him. Those slender arms were wound around him, pulling him close, drawing him further into that lean body.

And... and Severus had _kissed _him.

The very idea should have repulsed Harry. At the very least, it should have caused him to feel uncomfortable, but it didn't.

Not at all.

The cool brush of those soft lips against his skin and the gentle touch of those elegant fingers on his neck sent Harry's pulse racing once again and caused a blazing heat of longing and desire to surge through his entire body.

But as quickly as that fervent desire rose within him, it was gone, replaced by an icy cold wave of cruel truth.

Severus was dead.

He was not meant to be in this world... not meant to bestow comfort to the living... and he was _certainly_ not meant to engender these feelings of yearning and want and love that were now stirring within the hollows of Harry's desolate heart.

No.

What tea remained inside Harry's forsaken cup was expelled violently when he tramped on it in his haste to withdraw. His whole body shook with the effort of leaving the first semblance of real comfort and affection he had experienced since the war – or maybe ever – but Harry forced himself to stand up and take a step back.

Then another step.

And another.

Warm tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. He wiped them away with the back of a trembling hand, then looked up to see Severus staring at him, those dark, soulful depths emanating confusion and…_ hurt?_

No.

This was not happening. He couldn't do this. He wouldn't let himself feel for this man. Severus could never be his. He belonged to another world, another realm of being, and the only reason he hadn't yet departed from this reality was because of the man's sheer stubbornness and obstinate will.

No.

"I… I have to go."

"Harry…"

No.

"Sorry, but I just remembered there's… there's some place I have to be…"

"Harry, please… let me explain…"

No.

Harry turned away from those wounded ebony eyes, away from the uncharacteristic expression of heartache on that pale face, and left the park at just under a run.

**Four - November 7th, 8:05am**

"I had hoped I would see you today."

"I'm not the one who ran out of here," Severus commented as he approached the bench and sat down.

Harry sighed. He knew this would be hard, possibly the hardest thing he would ever have to do, but he had to do it. He saw no other way.

He had stayed up all night replaying the events of the previous morning over and over again in his mind – the warm embrace, those long arms wrapping around him and holding him close, gentle fingers touching him and those soft lips brushing up against his skin and kissing him. The man's touch had inspired a torrent of overwhelming emotions to surge within Harry, awakening that evanescent part of his heart that had been shrouded by pain and guilt and regret for so long. Those blissful feelings of love and desire, so foreign to him at one time, now burned and smoldered within him with passionate intensity, leaving him eager and wanting more.

But more was impossible.

No matter how much he yearned for Severus' affections, no matter how desperately he ached for more of those gentle touches and soft kisses, it could never be. Severus would not remain a sentient form in this world for much longer. He was here on borrowed time.

Severus had to move on, and it was up to Harry to make that happen. Somehow, despite how much the idea gutted him, he had to do the right thing.

Pivoting on the bench so that he was facing Severus, Harry waited until those dark eyes locked with his own. The look within them radiated a depth of longing and sentiment that nearly left Harry breathless. Swallowing past the lump in his throat and pushing his own heartache aside, he took a deep, tremulous breath and then voiced the words he knew Severus needed to hear.

"Severus, I need you to go."

"I'm sorry, didn't you just say you had hoped to see me here today? Now suddenly you want me to go?" Severus asked, his voice hushed, a touch of hurt edging his tone. "Which is it, exactly?"

Harry released a harsh, frustrated breath, the pain in his heart intensifying as he desperately searched for the right combination of words, the ones that would trigger the man's soul to accept its fate and move on.

"Please… please, Severus… please just listen to me. You're shutting out your own inner voice… the calling… your denying it. You're ignoring what your own soul longs for… what it wants... what it _needs_."

Harry half expected the man to lose his temper and withdraw from him like he had during their first meeting back in September, but he was wrong. Severus moved nearer to him on the bench, placing a cold hand on the back of Harry's neck and drawing him closer. With his face now only inches from Harry's he spoke again, his voice no more than a whisper.

"I know exactly what my soul wants, Harry. I've known for two years now, but you're right – I _have_ been denying it. And I think you have too…"

Time seemed to stand still, the seconds slow to progress as Severus closed the small gap existing between them and pressed his cold lips to Harry's. Despite the chill, the exquisite sensation sent a pulse of burning heat to course through Harry in thick waves, hot sparks of desire exploding all over his body. The kiss remained light, soft, barely there, but as those thin lips brushed against Harry's like a delicate promise of what could be – what might have been – Harry's aching heart reached its breaking point. The cruel taunting of what he so desperately wanted, dangled in front of him like some callous reminder of what would never be, was just too much.

"NO! JUST GO! LEAVE ME ALONE!" he shouted, wrenching himself away from Severus to stand on shaky legs. Hot tears welled up in his stinging eyes, spilling down his cheeks unhindered as Harry continued, his pleading words spoken in a feeble whisper amid trembling breaths. "Please, Severus… just… just go away… go… and don't come back…"

Harry closed his tearful eyes, unwilling to see the hurt and pain emanating from those ebony depths. Instead, he listened to the sounds of the man's departure – the swish of heavy fabric and the cool, hard clack of boots hitting stone becoming fainter and fainter.

When at last there was silence once again, Harry opened his eyes to see an empty park bench while the barest whisper of longing still lingered in the frigid air.

**Five - February 14th, 10:06am**

The park was freezing.

But the bitter winter chill could never compare to the cold loneliness that lived within the deepest recesses of Harry's heart.

Snow fell like muted rain, hitting the already thick blanket of white with a soft, lulling hiss that resonated eerily in his ears. Harry looked away from the blinding expanse of ice and snow, bringing his focus back to his rapidly cooling caramel macchiato and whispering his third warming charm of the morning.

He had no idea why he'd even come to the park, today of all days. He hadn't been here for months, not since that horrible day – the day he forced Severus to leave.

The romantic in him thought perhaps his return to the park was just some mawkish endeavor to celebrate Valentine's Day. And never mind the fact that the only soul he had ever truly loved was gone from this world and would never return.

"You know… I did wonder why you never once asked me, not in all our meetings, how I survived Nagini's attack," came a deep, silky voice from behind the bench.

Harry's heart nearly burst through his chest at that familiar timbre and he whirled around, his cup flying out of his hand and spilling its contents onto the snow as he grabbed the back of the bench, eyes wide with shock.

"I found it quite puzzling," Severus continued as he calmly walked around the side of the bench and took his usual seat beside Harry. "After all, you are the quintessential Gryffindor. Half-truths and partial information don't normally sit well with you, not when the answers are so firmly within your grasp."

"Severus…"

"No. Don't talk. Let me finish."

He moved closer to Harry and grabbed his hand, holding it tightly within his own, leaning in further as he did.

"I understand now why you told me to leave."

"You do?" Harry whispered, his eyes stinging as treacherous tears emerged at their corners.

"Yes."

"Then why haven't you gone?" Harry asked, his tone pleading and his heart aching. "Why are you still here? You need to go on, Severus! You… you just can't hold on to the past like this and deny the world that awaits you… no matter how much you want to stay! You can't do this to yourself… you're not meant to–"

"I thought I told you to let me talk for once, you foolish boy."

Harry stifled a frustrated groan and closed his burning eyes. Tears were spilling from them now, sliding down his wind-burned cheeks where they prickled like icy heat. He let them fall, not sure he possessed the strength to wipe them away. He felt empty, depleted of what remained of his rational thought and drained of all inherent happiness. He had no idea how to convince Severus of his fate and persuade him to move on. And he was just so tired – so _very_ tired – of pretending that he wanted him to go at all.

Severus' cold hand tightened its grip on Harry's hand and lifted it. Slowly, he guided it to the inside of his winter coat and placed it on the very center of his chest, pressing down on it with his own hand so that Harry's palm lay flat.

Harry opened his eyes and glanced at the odd sight, Severus' larger, paler hand mantling his smaller one, keeping it firmly in place. Confused, he narrowed his eyes and shook his head, then gradually lifted his gaze to meet those deep pools of black.

"Severus, why are you–?

"Shhh... Quiet. Just feel."

Harry centered his focus on his own hand and was surprised to find that it was warm, the skin beneath Severus' thin shirt radiating a heat that spread throughout his whole hand. Perplexed even further, Harry shifted his hand slightly and spread his fingers, wanting to understand how it was possible that Severus could feel so warm, so real, when suddenly, something else grabbed his attention... something that pulled a gasp from him and nearly sent his heart into his throat.

"Oh my God... Severus? Is that... is that a–?"

"A heartbeat? Yes," Severus whispered, leaning closer still and wrapping his other arm around Harry, drawing him nearer.

"You're... you're alive?!" Harry choked out, his voice hindered by the rather large lump forming in his throat. "But I... I saw you die!"

With trembling hands, he clutched Severus' heavy wool scarf and wrested it away from his neck. Then, seeing absolutely no blood... no gore... no lacerated skin... he seized the high collar of his coat and pulled it aside for a better look. He stared, open-mouthed and in utter shock at the wondrous sight before him.

Where Harry had assumed for months existed a bloody, gaping wound under layers of tightly wound wool, there was nothing but pale, smooth skin with several faint scars that curved around the man's neck.

"You're shaking," Severus whispered against Harry's tear-streaked cheek, his breath warm as it grazed the damp skin.

"I... I can't believe..." Harry stammered, choking on his words, "All this time? All this time... you've been... _alive?!"_

"Yes, Harry. I live just a few blocks from here... on Spinner's End. I operate a mail order potion business out of my home. It keeps me rather busy. Though I do enjoy coming to the park to see you. I've missed you."

His last few words were soft, spoken in a gentle brush of ghosted breath that caressed Harry's lips as he narrowed the gap between them even more. Leaning forward, Severus brushed his own lips against the very corner of Harry's mouth and then slowly... very slowly... tilted his head, pressing them more fully to Harry's trembling ones.

The long-awaited sensation sent Harry's heart soaring with elation and desire.

Long arms once again closed around Harry and pulled him close as those soft, thin lips moved against his own. They were still cool to the touch, but as they drove forward, pressing with urgency, that chill turned into a burning, sensual fire, sending waves of exquisite pleasure and warmth to course through Harry. And when a warm tongue ran along his upper lip, beckoning admittance, Harry was completely undone.

Opening his mouth and pushing forward, Harry plunged his tongue into the man's hot, willing mouth, deepening their emotional kiss. His arms came up to wrap around Severus' neck while his fingers twisted around those soft strands of ebony hair, gripping and tugging insistently.

Severus seemed to relish Harry's sudden enthusiasm. He moaned into their kiss and tightened his hold around Harry's back, long fingers clutching at the thick fabric of his coat while that strong, eager tongue probed and explored all of Harry's mouth.

After several long, blissful minutes, Harry withdrew from their passionate kiss, needing to breathe and to calm his pounding heart. He looked up into those dark eyes and was taken aback by the depth of emotion he saw within them. The sight took his breath away even more than their kiss had.

"I'm sorry," Harry breathed out, his voice quavering. "I'm so sorry... for pushing you away... I thought..."

"I know what you thought, Harry. Miss Granger was quite detailed in her explanation of your newest... anomaly."

"Hermione? When did you speak to her?"

"Yesterday," Severus admitted. "It took a bit of research on my part to track her down as I had initially assumed she would be at Hogwarts."

"No, I guess you wouldn't have found her there," Harry clarified. "Both she and Ron were invited back to complete their seventh year, but Ron wanted to take a year off to spend some time with his family. Hermione actually did go back, but Professor McGonagall let her finish her remaining coursework via an accelerated independent study program. In true Hermione fashion, she finished the entire year's curriculum in only five months. Of course, she still has to take her NEWTs in June like everyone else, but she's not too fussed about it. Currently, she's living with her parents in Andover, now that they're back from Australia and their memories have been restored. So... wait... did you actually go to her parents' house?"

"Yes. I dare say the girl nearly had a heart attack when I showed up on her doorstep. Luckily, I am in the habit of carrying a few vials of calming draught with me. She wasn't even coherent enough to speak until the second dose. It seems most people find it rather disconcerting when a dead man shows up at their house."

"Uh... yeah. I can vouch for that," Harry quipped. "So, how _did_ you survive Nagini's attack?"

Severus sighed and shook his head, his brow furrowing. "Her venom had no effect on me. I had been dosing myself with her anti-venom since the Dark Lord made her his familiar. But the wounds... yes, the wounds should have killed me."

"Then how–?"

"Fawkes," Severus replied. "He showed up just after you left the Shrieking Shack."

"But... why didn't tell everyone you survived? Why did you keep us all in the dark like that?"

"Perhaps for the same reason you are currently living in this quiet Muggle town," Severus countered, a small smile curving his lips. "Maybe I just wanted to... get away... start over."

"Point taken," Harry remarked, his own smile emerging now. "So... where does that leave us?"

Severus withdrew his arms from around Harry's back and rested his hands on either side of his face, framing it. He leaned in and brushed his lips to Harry's in a feather light kiss. When he pulled away, there was an even broader smile stretched across that pale face.

"Perhaps we could start over together," he whispered. "It's taken us far too long to find our love for one another. I don't want to spend one more moment without you, Harry."

Once again, those soft lips were pressed to his. This time, the kiss was even slower, conveying a depth of emotion Harry had never before felt. Each slow, gentle caress of Severus' hand on the back of his neck filled him with a profound elation. Every brush of those thin lips against his own sent his heart soaring and his soul adrift with contentment, deepening his resolve that he had finally found a love that was true and real and eternal.

Breathless once again, Harry pulled away, feeling warmth despite the frigid temperatures.

"I don't want to spend another moment without you either, Severus, but..."

"But?"

"But it really hasn't taken us _that_ long to find our love for each other," Harry commented, smirking cheekily. "Just seven years."

"Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter, for your deplorable math skills. It was seven years _plus_ six months of sporadic and rather odd meetings."

"I should hardly think the meetings count, Severus. After all, there really weren't very many of them," Harry argued in a bantering tone, his impish smile growing as Severus' arms once again came around him and pulled him close.

"Hmm. Yes," Severus conceded, "That's right. There were five... _only_ five."

-Fin-

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**A/N:** Thanks for reading everyone! I hoped you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. The idea for this story popped into my head months ago, and I figured it was time to set it free. :)

For those of you who are anxiously awaiting my next chapter of **Gray Skye Mourning**, have no fear. I am hard at work on it and still hopeful I will reach my deadline of March 10th. If by chance it looks as though it will take a little longer, I'll be sure to update my Bio with a new ETA.

**Please review.  
**


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